Sins of the Fathers
by Atiaran
Summary: George R. R. Martin's Song of Ice and Fire. Deals with Sandor and Sansa as parents, and how their own childhood affects the way they deal with their children. Very different from my earlier ASOIAF fic; this one, I make no apologies for.


**Standard disclaimer:**  Catelyn, Robb, Escallon, Maesters Yevon and Seymour, Colin and Yarwin, and the Krannert family are mine; everything else is the property of George R. R. Martin.  No copyright infringement is intended by their use in this story.

**Author's note:**  This story is a different type of story from my previous Song of Ice and Fire fic, which is why I decided to write it after all.  Where my previous stories were mostly character and mood pieces, with this one I'm attempting to explore a particular theme, specifically how parenthood is shaped by one's own childhood experiences.  The genesis of this story lies in a thought I had one day about how Sandor would deal with having children; I thought that he would be uneasy about having sons because he would fear that he would be as ineffectual as his own father had been at containing Gregor's violence.  Then it occurred to me that he would probably be more confident about having daughters, and on the heels of that thought came the question, "What if he had a _daughter_ that turned out like Gregor?"  After that, the story practically wrote itself.

This story is set a long time in the future, after Sansa has retaken Winterfell and reigns as Queen in the North.  It probably does not match up all that well with canon (and I'm willing to bet parts of what I assume is canon will be undone or contradicted by _Feast For Crows_), but that's all right; that's not what this fic is about.  So all the canon freaks out there should "just repeat to yourself it's just a fic, I should really just relax."  Enjoy.  (_Edited 7/20/04 to correct a few minor errors.)_

"And the sins of the fathers shall be visited upon the sons even to the third and fourth generation."

_--Numbers 14:18 _

He hadn't wanted a son.

That was one thing Sandor had been sure of, right from the start. When Sansa had come to him, telling him with a smile, "You're going to be a father," he'd frozen.  All he'd been able to do was think of his own father, turned old before his time by the monster he'd raised in his own home, completely helpless to deal with Gregor's violence.  She'd watched him, her eyes bright with happiness, while he struggled to find something to say.  At last he'd found his voice.

"Is there anything you can—do—about it?"

"_Do_ about it?" she'd asked in confusion.  "What do you mean?"

"So—so you don't have to have it."

"So I don't have to _have_ it?"  She was getting angrier by the minute, he could see it, hear it in her voice.  "What _exactly_ are you saying?" she'd demanded.

"Do something.  I can't have it.  I don't want children.  Not any children."  He'd been unable to stop himself. 

Her anger hadn't heated; it had chilled, cold as the snows of the north, their home.  He'd seen her expression set like stone—how much she looked like her sister, in that moment—and she'd drawn herself up, with such poise, such confidence that though she was shorter than him, she seemed taller.  "What _you_ want doesn't enter into the matter," she'd told him, her voice cold as ice.  "_I_ must have a child, an heir, to cement my position as Queen of the North.  I must have a son, and you've provided me one—"

"_No."_  Every word he was saying was making her angrier, but he couldn't stop, the mere _thought_ of a son, _his_ son, and what it might be, frightened him so--  "I can't have a son.  Maybe—maybe you can.  _I_ can't."  And then, as he saw her anger giving way to confusion, he'd turned quickly and left, before the argument between them could get any worse.

He'd gone to the training yard, to practice with his blade; that afforded him precious little satisfaction, though, as it had been of late.  He was losing his strength, he could feel it.  Slowing down, too, though he'd never been especially fast.  Most fighting men put down their blades in their late thirties or thereabouts; he was over forty.  Still stronger than most, but not—quite—as strong as he had been.  That freakish woman Brienne…she was stronger than him now, he thought, though he didn't think she knew it.  Sometimes it worried him—more than sometimes, truth be told.  He'd never thought he'd have to face old age.  He'd never thought to live this long.  _What would Sansa say if she knew?_  That worried him even more.  Would he be able to keep her if she knew he was losing his strength?  Would she still want him if—

He stopped, winded, leaning on his blade and staring at the sand-covered ground.  If she had his child…his son…_his son…_

No. He couldn't think beyond that.  The thought scared him too much.  All he could think of was the three of them, in that drafty, crumbling towerhouse, how Gregor had terrorized them all…the broken, pathetic look in his father's eyes as he'd come to see him after—afterwards….he'd hated his father so much then, almost worse than Gregor, when he realized that his father wasn't going to do anything, that he was powerless to protect him and his sister…

_His sister.  _

_What if it's a girl?_

He stopped there, turning that over in his mind for a bit, thinking about what it might mean to have a daughter.  A daughter… a pretty little girl, one with bright red hair like her mother, a nice laugh, a sweet little singing voice—a girl he could tickle and tease and keep safe…maybe another one, long of face and brown of hair and ferocious, one he could teach to ride and shoot and fight with sword or axe…perhaps a third one, gentle and kind like his own sister had been…_A daughter.  Daughters._  What on earth was there to be afraid of, there?  Who would be afraid of that?

The more he thought about it the more it seemed he could see it, and the prettier a picture it made.  He could see himself, sitting by the fireside with Sansa, his daughters around him, maybe their husbands—they'd come here, of course, damned if he'd let his girls marry away from Winterfell, into strange families far away where they'd have no kin to protect them—  _And then there's Sansa to think about._  He wasn't getting younger.  He'd never thought he'd live this long, never thought he'd ever have a wife, let alone one so much younger than him, but since he had, maybe it was time to start thinking about it.  Sansa'd need someone, after he was gone; she had no other family, not anymore.  And if they started now, he wasn't _that_ old, he might even get to see grandchildren.  _Grandchildren._  The thought dazed him.  _No, not a son_.  He didn't think he could handle a son.  But daughters, now…

When they met at dinner that evening, he could see Sansa was no longer angry; she'd had a chance to do some thinking too.  She started to speak first, saying gently, "I see why you're upset, but it doesn't have to—" only to be stopped as he cut her off.

"No, it's all right," he told her.  "It's all right, I thought about it, and—and you're right.  I don't mind. I'm even glad."  She looked at him for a moment, trying to see if he was telling the truth, then at last had nodded and smiled, and the quarrel had been over, just like that.

No, he hadn't wanted a son.  He'd planned on having daughters, because daughters were safe.  But that wasn't quite how it worked out.

The first one had indeed been a daughter.  He'd stood by Sansa's side, holding her hand as she strained and screamed in labor, feeling helpless and frightened and wanting to find someone or something he could hit to make her feel better, but when the midwife had taken the child from between her legs and held it up for them to see, Sansa's pain had seemed to vanish, just like that.  "She's so beautiful!" Sansa had whispered to him, almost glowing, as the midwife had laid the child in her arms, and then she'd added, glancing up at him, "She looks like you."  And she had, even that young, he could see it; she had his black hair and strong features….She looked like him, _and she was beautiful._  The thought had rocked him.  Somehow, some way, he'd helped to make this _beautiful_ child….  He'd fallen in love with her almost on sight, but along with that love came a deep, bone-chilling fear.

A well-justified fear indeed, because it became evident, within a year, that it was not _him_ she looked like at all…but Gregor.  Even at birth Catelyn—Sansa had insisted she be named after her mother—had been unusually large, almost ten pounds, but he'd been able to push that thought aside; he was a big man himself, and ten pounds wasn't _freakish_ big.  But within a few years, her true nature became evident; she was at five and a half feet by the time she turned ten and still growing.  By the time she reached her full height, she was five or six inches shorter than her uncle had been, which still left her nearly a foot taller than her father; and while not quite as strong as Gregor had been, her arms and muscle definition put her father's to shame.  While several cuts above her uncle in intelligence (which wasn't saying much), she had his temper too; she was given to sullen, moody spells punctuated by violent explosions of anger which usually ended in broken furniture and smashed windows. Sandor watched her growing, first with caution, then unease, then actual fear, and while his early love for her never fully died, it was first accompanied, then overshadowed by a wariness the likes of which he hadn't felt since he was a child. 

More than once, as he watched her grow, he considered what might happen if some accident should happen to Catelyn, just…something…something to make her safe, maybe, not necessarily _kill_ her, but just…even the odds, a little bit; this thought was always accompanied by the idea that it would be easier to do it now than after she'd gotten too big to handle. But the only time he ever mentioned such thoughts to Sansa, in a hesitant way—it'd been when Catelyn was six, the day her pony had thrown her and, in a rage, she'd killed it with a single blow of her fist—Sansa's reaction had been so horrified and furious that he'd never dared bring it up again.  Even so, Sansa had never forgotten that he'd mentioned it; she was very cool to him for a long time after, and even after she thawed, he could still see it in her eyes when she looked at him sometimes.

But though she frightened him, Catelyn had two influences that tempered her violence.  The first was Brienne the swordswoman.  From the time she was old enough to crawl, Catelyn had worshiped the ground Brienne walked on.  There was never anywhere she would rather be than where Brienne was, watching her train, being carried in her saddle, helping her with her sword and armor.  It was Brienne who had come to them when Catelyn was seven or eight; Brienne who had told them plainly and in reasonable fashion, "I've watched Catelyn.  I know what it's like for a girl like her; I was one myself.  And I'll tell you this:  You'll never make a daughter out of her.  But, if you let me train her, you just might end up with a halfway decent son." And Sansa had listened gravely.   Sandor had objected, for the last thing he wanted to do was to make Catelyn any more dangerous than she already was, but Sansa was Queen of the North, and in the end, Brienne got her chance.  And he had to admit, that Brienne could curb the girl admirably; all the swordswoman had to do was frown at her to bring Catelyn to heel.  It was with amazement that Sandor saw Brienne working to instill all that knight's swill about honor into Catelyn, and with even greater amazement that he saw it actually seemed to be working.  Under Brienne's tutelage, except during actual combat, Catelyn never harmed another human being.

The second influence on her was her younger brother.

Robb was four years younger than Catelyn, a Tully through and through; he was their last child, because by the time they had him, Catelyn was already showing her true colors, and when Robb turned out to be a boy, Sandor got scared and demanded that they stop.  Difficult from the first—Sansa's labor with him lasted thirteen hours, and their midwife told them later that although it had all turned out all right, for a while she had been extremely concerned—Robb had his mother's fire-red hair and her pale skin. While he never attained the Tully height—Robb topped out at five feet three inches, shorter even than his mother—he definitely received her quick wit.  In fact, their maester declared that Robb was the smartest child he had ever taught; he was so smart, and picked things up so quickly that it was almost scary.  He was never more than a middling hand with a blade—he'd rather read or write or figure than fight—but his talent for statecraft easily matched that of his mother, even at a very young age.

Catelyn adored him.

Almost from the moment he was born, Catelyn seemed to devote herself to being her younger brother's protector and servant.  When he was a baby, she would creep into his room and stand by his cradle, just watching him; she even would sleep there, lying across the threshold of the door as if to blockade it from anyone that wished to get in, and only a direct command from Brienne would dislodge her; to the entreaties of her mother and father both she turned a deaf ear.  From the time Robb was old enough to point, Catelyn devoted herself to running and fetching whatever it was he wanted or needed, and when he cried, she would sing to him in her awful, off-key voice until he quieted.  As for Robb's part, from the time he could talk, he could crack Catelyn up with ease, joking with her, jollying her out of her spells of bad temper, teasing her till she laughed herself to a state of complete helplessness.

Once when Robb was six and Catelyn was ten, Sandor had been passing outside Robb's room when he'd heard shrieks coming from inside.  His heart in his throat, he'd thrown open the door to find Catelyn, rolling on the floor howling in laughter while Robb delivered a flawless imitation of their aged, almost-senile septon, his stammer, his limping gait, his high, querulous voice, and all. 

"Oh, _stop_, Robb!"  Catelyn had cried, barely able to get out the words, she was laughing so hard.  "_Please_ stop!  I can't take any more!  Stop!"

Robb had folded his small arms and looked down at his hysterical sister sadly.  "How could you be so disrespectful, Cat?" he'd asked.  "Laughing so hard at the expense of a septon is surely a serious sin."  The words sounded unnatural and eerie, delivered in Robb's high, childish voice—and yet somehow strangely appropriate to the cool expression on those tiny features.

Catelyn had not noticed the incongruity though; she had rolled over and pounded the floor with her huge fists, laughing until tears streamed down her face.  Robb had simply stood over her, shaking his head slightly as if saddened by the poor condition of his sister's soul.

Robb showed no fear of Catelyn even in her wildest rages; he would walk right up to her even as she was smashing furniture and throwing things through the air, with a fearlessness that left Sandor speechless, and proceed to scold her.  "Oh, very good, Cat," he might say mockingly.  "Breaking a table.  Well done.  Do you feel better now?  Did that help anything?"  Sometimes he would even strike her lightly on the arm or shoulder, if she annoyed him too much.  Catelyn could have picked Robb up and broken him in half without so much as breathing hard—and in fact, Sandor kept waiting in dread for her to do it; he was never convinced that Catelyn was as tamed to Robb as she seemed to be—but she never laid so much as a finger on him, and oftentimes a word from Robb could docile her most savage furies.

The two of them were together as much as they could be, from the time Robb could walk; when Brienne called Catelyn for training, Robb would howl and cry as Cat explained to him calmly and patiently that she had to go work with Brienne now but soon she would be back to play with him; when Robb, a little older, slammed his door in Cat's face because he wanted to read _A History of Old Valyria_ or _The Arts of War_ or _Lives of Four Princes,_ Catelyn would mope and sulk and sometimes smash things.  Oftentimes Robb would ignore her; sometimes he would throw open his door and yell at her to shut up because he couldn't concentrate; more rarely, he would relent, let her into his room, and read to her out loud, lounging on his bed while she sat or lay at his feet and listened quietly.  Robb read fluently, and often finished multiple books in one day.  Cat hated reading; she read laboriously, if at all, and had to move her lips to sound out the words even when only reading to herself, but she would listen to him for hours.  Sometimes he would read to her some of the poetry or songs he had been working on; Catelyn was an enthusiastic audience, and applauded uncritically for everything.

When Robb was seven or eight, during a summer year, he contracted a severe fever and became so ill that Maester Seymour confined him to bed for most of the year.  Cat immediately moved her bed outside his door and would not be dislodged from that position by anyone, not even Brienne; when ordered to leave her post, Cat would respond obstinately, often through eyes half-blurred with sleep, "No.  Robb might need me for something;" she would repeat this, over and over, with her huge jaw set, even when it was pointed out that the servants were perfectly capable of tending to Robb's needs.  In fact, Cat shooed off the servants whenever she could, insisting that she did not trust them to care for him properly.  The sight of her massive form lurking outside Robb's door, often leaning back against the wall behind her in weariness, quickly became an accustomed one, even after Robb had turned the corner and begun recovering; finally, one day after Robb snapped at her that he didn't want her hovering over him every second and slapped her to drive her away did Cat return, much relieved, to her daily routine.  To Sandor's amazement, she was not angered by Robb's striking her; on the contrary, Cat was delighted because she found it a reassuring sign of Robb's convalescence.

As for Robb's part, it was clear from a very young age that he was aware of Catelyn's utter devotion to him.  As the two of them grew older, he began to use it as well.

"Robb," he might be scolded, "don't just stall your horse. You have to rub him down first." 

Robb would sigh.  "Oh, all right.  _Catelyn!_"

Catelyn, never far away, would hurry over.  "Yes?"

"Catelyn, Sissie—"  Robb called her "Sissie;" it was a name he had made up for her as a child because he couldn't say "sister" "—would you please take care of my horse for me?"

"Sure, right away!" she would agree obligingly.

"No, Robb," the head groom might chide him. "_You_ have to do it yourself."

"But why?" Robb would ask, looking back at him with disconcerting directness.  "Cat will do it.  She doesn't mind.  Do you, Sissie?" he would ask her.

"No, he's right, I don't," Cat would protest, looking down at the groom with a level of wide-eyed earnestness that was almost painful to see.  "I _like_ helping Robb."

"It's your job because it's your responsibility," the groom might counter.

"Well…as future King of the North, one might argue that my responsibility would be better served by improving my mind, reading _Lives of Four Princes._  Catelyn can take care of my horse.  Isn't that why servants are there, to allow the nobles to free their time to rule?"

The head groom, a servant himself, would reply, "Your sister is not your servant."

"One might argue," Robb would reply, "that as the future King of the North, _everyone's_ my servant…But whether she is or not, Cat's still my Sissie.  And if a sister wants to help her brother, where's the harm in that?" Robb would ask, and stand there looking at the groom waiting for an answer.  By the time the groom got around to finding one, Catelyn would already have taken the reins out of Robb's hands, led him off, tended him and stalled him herself.

In addition to serving him, Cat protected him.  From the time Robb was born Cat wouldn't let anyone near him if she thought they meant him harm, even backing off Robb's nurse once when she saw the nurse slap him in reprimand.  It was hard for Robb to be trained in arms, because an opponent who fought Robb too aggressively might find Catelyn's huge hand wrapped around his wrist, twisting his sword from his grasp while the much larger woman glowered down at him darkly.  Eventually Brienne was given charge of Robb's training, since Catelyn trusted her and would let only her come near to striking Robb, and in this way Brienne became master-of-arms at Winterfell.  Even so, Robb was lazy and often skipped weapons practice, preferring to be cloistered discussing arcane matters with their maester.  When Sandor in frustration tried to get his son to act more the man, Robb brushed his father off with an airy wave of the hand.  "I don't need to," Robb said serenely.  "I have my Sissie to fight for me.  Cat can do all that brute work while I spend my time on more important things."  And indeed, Cat was perfectly willing to do so; the very few boys who mocked Robb for hiding behind his sister stopped the moment they beheld Catelyn in the practice yard, swinging a six-foot greatsword around with one hand.  _Just as Gregor always did,_ Sandor thought with a chill whenever he saw his daughter doing that.

But if Cat was devoted to Robb, it was also clear that, in his own fashion, Robb was devoted to Cat; he would suffer no one to treat her cruelly.  When youths would laugh at Catelyn for being a freak or unwomanly—always from a safe distance, though Cat never hurt them—Cat never defended herself; her only response was to retreat to her room for hours, crying.  Robb would respond in her place, his blue eyes glimmering in a way that meant he was very angry; he would mock them with bitingly poisoned barbs or quips until her tormentors would retreat in shame, often in tears, sometimes not to be seen again in public for days.  Sometimes he would go further than that; once, with one particularly thick-headed young man, Robb quietly spread the rumor that he had been caught in a compromising situation with the wife of their blacksmith.  Colin the blacksmith, a hot-headed man with a temper like murder, took after the young man with the heaviest hammer from his forge, and it was only due to Cat's interference that they were able to separate the two.  The youth, bruised, frightened and shaking, ended up apologizing thoroughly to Catelyn and begging her forgiveness.  Robb would also help her in her lessons; though Catelyn was four years older than he was, Robb was so quick that Maester Seymour taught them together, and often Robb might say, "Could you please go over that again, Maester?  I don't think Catelyn quite got that," or "Could you repeat that please?  Catelyn sometimes has trouble with these sorts of concepts."  Afterwards, he would often offer solicitously to go over their lessons again with Catelyn, in case she hadn't understood something, or he would suggest ways for Catelyn to think about or remember what they had learned.  Whenever Cat asked Robb for help, Robb would go through everything with her several times, speaking slowly and clearly, so that (as he assured her) she could be sure to understand everything well.

Some months after the incident with the blacksmith, after an afternoon spent watching their children at their lessons, Sansa said, "I think we have a bully on our hands."

Sandor looked sharply over at her, his heart cold within him, thinking in some distant part of his mind that he'd known it all along.  They were preparing for bed and Sansa was in her dressing gown, her hair about her shoulders; she was biting her lip, looking troubled.  "What did she do?" he demanded harshly.

"What did _who_ do?" Sansa asked, looking up at him in confusion.

"_Catelyn_.  What did she do?"  In his mind, he was already going over ideas to restrain her.  They were pitifully few.  She'd gotten too big already.  _Just like--_  The thought chilled him, and he clenched his fists.

Sansa's brows came together.  "Why do you think Catelyn did anything?"

"You said—you said you thought we had a bully on our hands," he said, starting to be confused himself.

Sansa's look of perplexity deepened.  "I didn't mean Catelyn_,_" she said, frowning.  "I meant _Robb_."

"_Robb?_"  For a moment, Sandor could only stare at her in astonishment.  _Robb?  A bully?_  He tried to think of it, to see his short, pale, unwarlike son beating or even _hurting_ anyone, let alone--  The idea was so ridiculous he wondered if he'd heard Sansa right.  He realized he was shaking his head in disbelief.

He said as much to Sansa.  "Robb?  Robb couldn't hurt anyone."

"Not with his fists, no," Sansa replied, her frown deepening.

"What do you mean?" he asked.

She was silent for a long moment, trying to gather her thoughts.  At last she said, "He doesn't hit people with his fists….But in a way, what he does is almost worse."  She paused.  "And the way he treats Cat makes me sick."

_The way he treats Cat…?_ "Worse?"   He stared at her.  "What are you talking about?"

She raised an eyebrow, looking at him coolly.  "Didn't you hear what he said to the little Weifort boy the other day?  After the boy spilled that pitcher of water over him?" 

"What…._that?_"  He thought about it for a moment.  "So the boy has a short temper," he said at last, shrugging.  "That doesn't make him a—"

"You know, a lot of the servants are afraid of him?" Sansa continued over top of him, smiling humorlessly.  "Especially the younger ones. They're afraid he'll rip them apart like he did little Jon Weifort. And that thing he pulled off with Colin—"

"That was an accident," Sandor said uneasily.  "He told me about it.  He'd just overheard some people talking, and passed on the rumor, that's all.  He never intended for it to get back to Colin—"

"And you _believed_ him when he told you that?"  Her face had settled into the slightly superior smile he had seen her use at the negotiating table more times than he could count.  "No.  Take it from me, from someone who knows:  I've seen men and women three times his age who couldn't pass a story that smoothly.  Didn't you notice how he just happened to be right on hand when Colin caught up with Yarwin?  I'm guessing Catelyn wasn't in on it; I don't think she'd have stood for it if she knew, even if it was against Yarwin.  But Robb just happened to be on hand to summon her when Colin appeared.  He surely took his sweet time about it too; Robb only called her after Colin picked up his hammer, and from what I heard, if she'd been even a moment later in getting there, Yarwin could have been in serious trouble."

"You're imagining things," he said, troubled. 

She lifted an eyebrow.  "Am I?  I don't think so.  And then there's the way he treats Cat."

"What _about_ the way he treats Cat?"

"That girl adores him and he treats her like a halfwit," she said, her eyes glinting.  "He orders her around, insults her, treats her as if she is less than he is—"

"He's never said an unkind word to her," Sandor protested.  "Not once—"

"He doesn't have to," she responded coldly.  "And that makes it worse.  Because everything he does, every insult he gives her, everything he says to her, is done under the guise of helping her and caring for his sister, which makes it almost impossible for her to protest."  Seeing his blank look, she asked, "Didn't you hear the way he was talking to her today during lessons?  He was talking to her as if he were a maester just like Seymour and she were one of his students, and not a particularly bright one at that."

He shrugged.  "Catelyn's not smart—"

"She may not be as quick to learn things as Robb is, but she's not _stupid,_" Sansa responded.  "And that's how Robb treats her—as a cross between a beast of burden and a dull-witted pupil.  I don't care for it."

Sandor thought about it for a long time, picturing the two of them together in his mind, seeing the massive bulk of Catelyn next to the short, slight form of Robb.  At last he said slowly, "I think you're wrong."  He continued, as Sansa would have spoken, "The problem isn't Robb.  It's Catelyn."

"_Catelyn?"_ 

"Catelyn's the problem.  She's just too dangerous."

"Too _dangerous?_"

_"Yes,"_ he said fervently.  "Don't you see her, her fits of temper, the way she throws things or breaks things when she's angry?  She killed her pony that one time—"

"Yes, and when she realized what she'd done she wept for three days afterward until Brienne had a funeral for it.  Outside of battle or practice, she's _never_ hurt another person—"

"Not _yet,_" he said darkly.  "One of these days she'll do it though, mark my words.  And—and who'll be able to stop her?  She's just too strong.  She barely listens to you anymore and she—she doesn't listen to me, hasn't for years…the only ones she really pays attention to are Robb and Brienne, and when she—when she finally realizes…."  He stopped there, clenching his fist, unable to find the words for the nameless sense of dread that came over him whenever he thought about Catelyn for too long.

Sansa looked at him for a long time, her expression unreadable.  At last she said, her voice strangely gentle, "I…can see…why you think that, but you're wrong.  Catelyn's a sensitive girl.  Too sensitive, if you want the truth.  She has a kind heart.  I just wish her brother had some of her compassion." 

He said nothing, troubled, staring at the floor. 

Sansa watched him for a moment more.  "Come here," she said, and drew him into her arms.  He went unprotesting, but unconvinced.   She sighed as she closed her arms around him.  "Maybe I'm wrong.  I probably am.  I hope so.  Just…think about what I've said, all right?"

He did, turning her comments over in his mind the next few days as he went about his daily routine; her words about Robb were always in the back of his thoughts as he drilled or trained or rode or sharpened his weapon; while standing by Sansa's side, keeping her safe during her audiences with the Umbers or the Karstarks or the Tyrell delegation from the south, or lying in bed late at night after she had gone to sleep.  As he thought about it, he watched them too, Robb and Catelyn, in the practice yard or in the halls or down by the stables; he watched unobtrusively, seeing how they were, together.  He saw how quickly Catelyn came running, at Robb's every call; how she jumped to obey him or carry out his commands, moving as swiftly as her huge size would allow; he watched how Robb could summon that mountain of a woman—and indeed, some of the younger boys had already begun calling her the Mountain, most of them too young to ever have seen or heard of Gregor—with the slightest gesture of his hand.  There was something almost…almost _familiar_ about it, Sandor couldn't think of what, exactly, in the sight of that huge almost-woman hurrying to obey that slender, pale boy. _"Cat!"_ Robb might shout, "Cat, Sissie, go get my horse ready," or "Sissie, go fetch that book from Maester Seymour," or "Sissie, I'm busy right now and can't leave this problem, would you please get me some water?" And Catelyn would always answer, "Right away, Robb," or "Sure thing," or "Whatever you say."

The more he watched them, the less it worried him; despite what Sansa had told him, he didn't see anything wrong in the way Robb treated her.  In fact on some level, he was vaguely reassured; he wasn't sure why.  _Good,_ he thought, watching Catelyn bound up the stairs four at a time to go fetch the cloak Robb had forgotten on his bed, _that's good._  Sure, Robb would explain things to her, or try and help her with her lessons, but so what?  Sandor had never been much good at lessons himself, and Cat was the same way; Robb was helping his sister, that was all.  No mystery there.  _Besides, maybe, if the boy keeps it up…_  The thought flitted through his mind from time to time, but never quite settled.  No matter.  There was nothing to worry about there, he told himself, and felt better for it.

Until the arguments began.

They started when Robb was eleven and Cat was fifteen, after Maester Seymour died and they got a new one from the Citadel.  Maester Yevon was nowhere near as patient with Cat as Seymour had been; he openly favored Robb.  He and Robb would talk for hours, shutting Catelyn out, and when Cat protested, Robb would simply explain that they felt that she would be bored by their conversation and didn't see any particular reason for her inclusion.

The arguments, which settled into a pattern of one every two weeks or so, were loud, noisy, and startlingly violent; the noise was all on Cat's side, for Robb remained cool and collected even through the worst of Cat's rage.  Many in the household were frightened by them, but Robb never so much as blinked.  The first one happened right after lessons about five months in; Robb had promised Cat he would spend the day with her, but instead spent the afternoon discussing history with Maester Yevon.  When Cat, hurt, confronted Robb and demanded to know why he never talked to her like that, Robb simply stated that he felt that "it was easier and more enjoyable to discuss certain subjects with Maester Yevon than with you, Sissie."  Cat hadn't said anything for a very long time, and when she had finally spoken, her voice had quivered with hurt.

 "Why _can't_ you talk to me like that, Robb?"

"I…we…just don't think that….that our conversation would be of any interest to you, Sissie," Robb replied after a short hesitation.  "I—I mean, we….the subjects we're discussing are subjects that—that it seems like you have trouble understanding, sometimes, Cat and so we feel that –"

"You think I'm not smart enough for you."  Cat's words were almost inaudible.

Robb had paused for a long moment, watching his sister's bowed head.  "I think….I think you're smart in your own way, Cat, Sissie.  It's just that that your kind of intelligence is….very different….from the kind that…I and….and Maester Yevon….share, that's all."

"You mean you think I'm too stupid to understand," Cat had said, obviously hurt.

"I didn't say that."

"It's true, I _know_ you think that.  Smart in my own way?  What's that even _mean?_  How do you think I'm smart?" she had asked him, pleading.

Robb hadn't answered for a long time.  Cat had watched him, waiting.  At last he had said, "You _are_ smart, Cat, it's just that—"

"You can't answer.  You think I'm stupid.  I know you do," she said, hurt and starting to be angry.

"I didn't say that," he'd repeated coolly.

"You didn't have to.  I can tell.  Otherwise you wouldn't have said all those things to the Maester."  She was starting to get angrier as they spoke.

"What sorts of things?" Robb asked, chilling.

"About how…about how it's hard for me to…to understand things sometimes—"

"It _is_ hard for you to understand things sometimes," Robb had answered with eminent coolness.  "I was just telling the truth—"

"Yes, but you don't have to _say_ it!"

"I was trying to _help_ you," Robb had replied, chilling even further as Cat grew angrier.  "I said, it _is_ hard for you to understand things sometimes—remember how Maester Seymour had to go over Fermari's Theorem of Triangles with you five times before you began to understand it?  I was trying to get Maester Yevon to realize that sometimes you take a little longer to understand things."

"Because I'm _stupid,_" Cat said angrily.

"I never said that."

"You do, you call me stupid all the time—"

"When?  Name one time I called you stupid.  You said I called you stupid all the time, surely you can think of one time I did so.  Let's hear it."

"I—Yesterday!  When we were down by the pond and you—"

"I didn't call you stupid, I said you were _acting_ stupidly.  There's a difference."

"But you do!  You said that—you asked Maester Yevon to repeat the _Ode to Spring_ again because you didn't think I had understood what he said the first time—"

"First of all, that's not calling you stupid and second of all, you _hadn't_ understood it the first time, or don't you remember?  Again, I was trying to _help_ you.  I could see that you were having problems and I wanted to be sure you understood everything."

"But you didn't have to do that!"

"Oh, I'm sorry, was I _not_ supposed to help you?  Was I supposed to let you go along, not even realizing that there was something that you didn't understand?  I'm sorry I demonstrated such care for my sister—"

"_Stop it!"_  Catelyn screamed and smashed her huge fists down on a table.  The table split in half from the force of her blow with a loud crack; one end of it toppled to the carpet and Cat snatched up the other end of it, smashing it against the ground.  "_You do this all the time!"_ she shouted at him furiously.  Robb didn't so much as flinch.

"What do I do all the time?" he demanded sharply.  "Help my sister?  Seven forbid that I should want to help my Sissie.  Surely such an act is the blackest sin under the laws of the gods—"

"_You act like I'm stupid!_" she shouted at him and shoved over a chair. Splinters flew.  Robb lifted one hand to shield his eyes, but otherwise did not blink.  "You do, you _do!_"

"I _act_ like you're stupid?  I thought you said I _call_ you stupid.  Do I _act_ like you're stupid  or _call_ you stupid?" he asked coldly.  "Which is it?"

"_Shut up!!_"

"Oh, I see.  You can't answer.  That must mean that you're wrong.  Surely if you were right you could think of one instance in which I acted like you were stupid. Since you can't do it—"

_"Shut up!!"_ Cat screamed again and stopped; her face worked and she began to cry.  "You don't—You never—"  She put her hands over her eyes.  Her huge shoulders shook.  Robb watched her with a look of evident disgust.

"Come talk to me when you've calmed down," he said with something very close to contempt, and turned, and swept from the room.  Behind him, Catelyn picked up another chair one-handed, smashed it against the wall, and sobbed.  It was a couple of hours before she stopped crying.

The arguments between them always followed this pattern, with Catelyn falling into a grotesque combination of rage and pleading while Robb coolly covered his bases and ruthlessly picked apart every argument that Cat advanced.  Usually they ended with Robb walking out on Catelyn, who was almost always in tears by then, and since Robb never bent, it was always Cat who came seeking to make up afterwards.

"He's not even trying," Sansa murmured one afternoon, listening to Cat's rough sobs and Robb's footsteps climbing the stairs.

"Who's not trying?" Sandor asked as the door to Robb's room slammed in the distance.

"Robb.  He's beating her without even having to try."

"He's not _beating_ her," Sandor protested over the crash of something fragile from Catelyn's direction.

"Cat's crying, what would you call that?"  Sansa asked.  "She loves him so much—all she wants is his approval, and he's not giving it…."  She rose in a rustle of skirts.  "I'll go to Catelyn and try to calm her. You talk to Robb.  Tell him to stop tormenting his sister so." 

After she had gone, Sandor remained still and listened for a moment to Catelyn's distant sobbing.  It was a harsh, ugly sound, as crude and ungraceful as Catelyn was herself.  Perhaps, he thought vaguely, that would have been what it sounded like if he had ever heard Gregor cry.  He listened for a long moment, thinking that.

Then he pushed the thought aside and went to find his son.

"I'm sorry, Father," Robb said coolly when he confronted him.  "I don't like it when Cat cries either.  I wish she wouldn't get so upset.  I wish she wouldn't take everything I say so hard.  I don't like seeing my Sissie cry either, but what else am I supposed to do about it?"

"You could….you could tell her she's smart once or twice, that's all," Sandor said.  "That's really all she wants from you.  Just…just tell her she's smart and let it go at that, would that really be so hard?"

"I _do,_" Robb replied without so much as a blink.  "I tell her I think she's smart in her own way, and I _do_ think she's smart in her own way.  Is it my fault that she doesn't happen to do well at her lessons?  I do all I can to help her, but I can only do so much. And in return, she yells at me."  He sighed, as if to dramatize the plight of a long-suffering soul.

Sandor stared at his son for a long time.  Robb looked back at him calmly, waiting for answer.  Something was wrong with what Robb was saying, he could feel it, but he couldn't think what it was.  _Sansa should have done this,_ the thought went through his head; she was better at this than him.  In the distance, Catelyn's sobbing was dying down; Sansa must be talking to her.  After a long moment, he said, "All right.  Just…try not to argue with her so much.  It's hard on everybody when you do."

"I'll do my best, Father, but to some extent that depends on her," Robb said, shrugging. Sandor nodded and left, as Robb went back to his reading. 

The arguments continued for almost a full year, growing worse and more violent as time went on, until Robb was twelve and Cat was sixteen.  At that time, a new development broke on the horizon, something totally unexpected by any who had watched the two.

Cat fell in love.

The object of Cat's affections was one of the Tyrells, a fosterling of fifteen, named Escallon and too pretty by half, and arrogantly sure of himself.  Within a month of his arrival, he'd gone through half the maids in Winterfell; and the other half during the second month, leaving a trail of broken hearts behind him.  Sansa maintained from the first that the boy was trouble; Sandor could see it as well, and they discussed quietly the likelihood of returning him to the Tyrells without causing insult; he was cruel to the servants, proud and scornful of anyone he deemed of less importance than himself, and in general a disruptive influence on the court.

Escallon charmed all the girls, however, and that meant he charmed Catelyn too.  It came as something of a shock to all who observed, as Cat had never showed the slightest interest in boys before; she'd never swooned or sighed for the youth of Winterfell as other girls her age and younger had—and in truth, who would she do such things with?  She'd never had any interest in the life of the women of the court, except for Brienne, and precious few friends among the men either.  As such, it took some time before those around her were able to figure out what had happened.  Once they had, however, Catelyn's plight generated much amusement among the people of Winterfell; it was obvious that Cat had lost her head over this boy, and was making a complete fool of herself for the entertainment of all who cared to look.

She never tried to pretty herself up for him, as another woman would have done, and indeed, she wouldn't even have known how to do so; Sansa had never tried to teach her the womanly arts, and Cat had never asked.  Nor, indeed, did she do so now.  There was something at once pathetic and touching in the way Cat pursued Escallon; she would bring him gifts, offer to run errands for him, and contrive, whenever she could, to be in the area near where he was.  The sight of Cat's huge form, towering over the gathering of Escallon and his friends, of her pitiable eagerness to please, was one of the most pathetic and sad sights that had ever graced the halls of Winterfell.  The whole court was laughing at her behind her back, but she didn't know; nobody would have told her.

Of course the Tyrell boy found her attentions as ludicrous as everyone else did, but instead of telling her right out, he led her on, smiling at her, accepting the presents she brought him or made for him graciously, dropping her a kind word every now and then—enough to give her all kinds of wild ideas about him and her and the two of them together, and she reacted with pitiful gladness to even the smallest kindness from him.  Behind her back, he and his friends ridiculed "that huge cow," as Escallon called her, viciously, but to her face Escallon was nothing less than courteous.  Whether or not Catelyn heard or believed the tales of his rampant wenching, no one could say; certainly she never gave any indication that she knew of them.

Cat was making a fool out of herself, but whenever anyone tried to tell her in a delicate way, it went right over her head; and nobody dared to be the one to tell her in a blunt enough way to be obvious.  After discussion with Sansa, Brienne tried to talk to Cat about Escallon on a couple of different occasions, but had no effect; whether it was that Cat simply didn't understand what Brienne was trying to tell her, or because she didn't _want_ to understand, Brienne said that she wasn't sure.  Finally, it was Robb who took matters into his own hands to rectify the situation, after one day when Cat had missed out on going riding with him as she had promised because she had been hovering around Escallon all afternoon.  "Where was she?" Robb had asked with a slight edge to his voice, when he had come in from the yard, eventually coming to the conclusion that Catelyn was not going to show up.

"With them," the groom had replied, indicating with a nod the cluster of Escallon and his followers descending the main stair, Cat's huge form towering right behind as she followed Escallon with her eyes.  Escallon was mostly paying Cat no heed, but every now and then he'd toss her a smile or a warm look, and Cat would practically glow with happiness.

Robb watched that for a moment, and his expression had chilled.  "I see," he had said, and had said nothing else, just that.

Just what Robb did was a matter of much speculation among the court at Winterfell; even after Cat stopped crying afterward, she wouldn't talk about it, and Robb never said a word.  One story was that Robb had arranged for Catelyn to come upon Escallon with another girl, although tellers differed as to who that girl had been.  Another was that he had simply placed Catelyn where she could overhear Escallon talking about her to his friends.  Either way, some few days later Robb had come to his parents, cool and calm, and said, "Escallon has to leave.  Now."

"We can't send him back now," Sansa had said.  "Not without causing unpleasantness—"

"Then there will have to be unpleasantness.  I don't want him staying under the same roof as my Sissie.  Not anymore.  Cat shouldn't have to deal with that—Cat shouldn't have to deal with him.  Not now."  His words had been punctuated by several loud crashes from the direction of Cat's room.  Robb's blue eyes had grown harder at each one.  "I want him _gone,_" he had said, his voice thick with suppressed anger.  "He goes in two days or I…"  Robb paused, and was suddenly calm again.  "Or I'll make a suggestion to Cat," he said, and waited for the meaning of his words to sink in.

 Usually it was Sansa who was much quicker in grasping Robb's intents, but this time it was Sandor who saw what he was getting at first.  "You wouldn't," he'd said, suddenly cold.

"I would," Robb said quietly, meeting his father's eyes.  "I think she'd do it, too.  She wouldn't think of it on her own account—I don't think she's figured out that she _can,_ yet—but if _I_ ask her to, as a favor from my Sissie—once she's had a chance to stop crying and think about it—I think she'll be willing.  _More_ than willing.  She'd be even glad.  I know _I _will be.  Like I said, two days—or I talk to my Sissie."  He'd turned and left, leaving his threat hanging in the air behind him.

 "He _threatened_ us," Sansa said in disbelief and dawning anger, when Robb was gone.  "He _threatened_ to use Cat to—"

"We have to send him away."  He'd spoken before he even knew the words were out of his mouth.  "Right now.  Or—" 

"We can't." Sansa shook her head.  "If Robb knows this will succeed, he'll do it again.  We can't let him get away with it, don't you see?"

"No."  Sandor had shaken his head.  "Escallon has to go.  So that…."  He'd trailed off, thinking of Robb's words.

_I don't think she's figured out that she _can.  _Yet._  Yet.

Sansa had resisted, but for once he'd put his foot down, and Escallon had been shipped back to Highgarden two days hence. 

The effects on Catelyn, however, lingered.  Afterward, Cat grew increasingly dependent on Robb; she reached a point where she was unable to make simple decisions on her own, but had to rely on Robb to give her direction in even the smallest things.  She no longer seemed to trust her own judgement.  At the simplest question, even something as simple as which direction to go when setting out for a day of riding, she would unfailingly glance over at Robb to see his signal, and if Robb was not by, she might take as long as a quarter of an hour to reach a decision.  For Robb's part, he was unfailingly kind to Cat for many months after, spending long hours with her, trying to soothe her or to talk her out of her misery.  "I'm sorry, Cat," he would say to her quietly, as he held her huge head in his lap.  "It's just that….Escallon….was not the type to be interested in….someone like you, that's all.  You'll find another one someday, someone who—who understands you and can accept you for who you are.  You're better off now that he's gone, Cat, trust me."  Cat would listen to Robb with almost pathetic gratitude, her pleading gaze hanging on his face, as if she were begging him to make it better.  Their arguments went underground at this time, but the tension that had fueled them had not gone; those who observed the pair closely, such as Sansa, said it still simmered between the two of them.  Now, however, it had a different sort of edge to it.  Everyone watching agreed that the situation was odd and uneasy, and that it could not continue forever. 

When the situation broke, it broke over Catelyn's marriage arrangements. For a long time it had been agreed without a word being said that Catelyn was unmarriageable; Sansa had made no attempts to secure a betrothal for her, Cat had never pressed for one, and the whole matter had been glossed over without anyone saying anything about it.  But when Cat was eighteen and Robb was fourteen, a delegation came from the Krannerts seeking to wed Cat to Old Krannert's grandson.

The Krannerts were a strange family, one of the Starks' oldest bannermen, but not large in numbers and reclusive and clannish.  To tell the truth, they were not much either liked or trusted among those who followed the Starks, nor by the Starks themselves; they had a history of coming late to battles and throwing their weight to the side they thought would win, rather than the honorable side or the side to whom they were bound by loyalty.  And on a personal level, as well there were dark rumors whispered about their family; about hereditary insanity, physical defects, and so on.  Old Krannert, the patriarch, had taken a wife in his youth, and she had borne five children which he claimed as his own, but those who watched thought that it was passing strange, the way that those children resembled Old Krannert's young and startlingly handsome nephew more than they did him.  The wife had died after twelve years of marriage, and it was not until many years after, shortly before the offer came for Cat's hand, that he had remarried; a young, pretty girl who was distantly related to the Karstarks, and offered perhaps the best catch that Old Krannert could expect to get.  It was an open secret that Krannert was no husband to her, as was his wife's evident dissatisfaction with her situation, but the speculation as to why did not go further than that except in extremely guarded whispers; Old Krannert was no longer as tolerant of rumors as he had been in his youth.

Between the hereditary insanity, the physical defects, the rumored vile temper and the bad moral character of the whole family, coupled with their small holdings and minor importance, they should not ordinarily have had a chance at being considered for an alliance, and they would not have, had Cat not been unmarriageable through ordinary means.  However, Cat's reaction was so delighted, enthusiastic, even ecstatic, that Sansa in consultation with Robb who had begun learning his trade, decided to at least give them an audience so they could hear their offer out.

"They want me?" Cat had said, touchingly surprised, when the advance messenger arrived.  "They actually want _me_?"

Robb hadn't said anything but had glanced at his mother; Sandor had seen the same expression on each of their faces.  He knew exactly what they were thinking because he was thinking it himself:  _what's wrong with Old Krannert's grandson?_ Jimmis, the boy's name was; nobody had ever seen him, and the fact that he wasn't married already, though he was as old as Cat, strongly suggested that all was not right there.

It had been Robb who had broken the silence, speaking with a strange, considerate delicacy.  "Yes…but Cat, you know, the Krannerts—they aren't a particularly important or wealthy house, and, you know, if….if they can't make an offer worthy of your station, then Mother might really be best off to reject them, since it would diminish the prestige of all of us to accept an offer that undervalues you—And besides, you know….you've never met Jimmis, and you—you may not find him to your liking—"

"Oh, I don't care," Cat had said.  She had been almost glowing with happiness.  "I don't care.  I'll like him, I know I will.  I know it.  And I'll _make_ him like me, I will. Mother, _please_ let them come," she appealed to Sansa.  "_Please_, Mother," she said earnestly, pleading with Sansa.  "I know they're not a very important house but they want me, Mother.  They want me.  _Please_, Mother, just let them come.  Finally, Mother—please—_somebody wants me._"  Sansa had only looked silently at Cat, then had turned and exchanged long glances with Robb; she hadn't answered.

Later that evening, after they had retired for the night, Sandor asked her, "What will you do?"

Sansa had sighed, looking tired.  For a long time she had not answered, then had said, "It's against my better judgement, because I think there's no way this will end well."

"But?" he had prompted her after a moment.

"_But…_"  Her expression was shadowed and dim.  "But Cat's right.  They do want her.  And she's so enthusiastic about this that….."  At last she shrugged.  "At least we can consider the offer.  We don't have to take it.  And I'll make them bring Jimmis too, so that we can see what we're getting.  If Jimmis turns out to be a freak, or of bad temper, we can turn him down."

_Of bad temper._  Sandor did not bother to point out that no matter how bad Jimmis's temper was, he doubted the lad would dare to unleash it at Catelyn.  He said nothing; he had nothing to contribute.  His family's holdings had been so insignificant that no one had cared to offer for him, the disfigured second son of a minor knight; even had they, he had left as soon as he could anyway.  Instead, he sat on the edge of their bed and began tugging at his boots, profoundly troubled though he could not say why.

Sansa was continuing.  "I just wish—I wish that Cat had some of Robb's political insight sometimes," she told him.  "She's just so _hopelessly_ naïve.  And despite what Robb says, I know she's got the brain for it.  It's just a matter of her getting a chance to use it.  As it is, she doesn't have to because Robb does all the thinking for her."  She sighed again and sat down beside him, stroking his shoulders absently.  "At any rate, we don't have to take him.  We can always send him back."

"We can," he acknowledged and said no more; he'd seen Sansa in action enough to know that she knew what she was doing.

When the Krannert delegation had arrived at Winterfell, they had avoided presenting Jimmis to Sansa directly; they claimed the boy was fatigued from travel and needed to rest.  So it was only when they had gotten to the negotiating table, that they had seen; the boy, Jimmis Krannert, had a twisted and misshapen body and was a halfwit to boot, wall-eyed with a squint; he constantly twitched and drooled, occasionally uttering loud, wordless cries in the voice of a slaughtered calf. 

Sandor could _feel _Sansa's anger surge from across the room when she first saw what they were proposing as a husband to Catelyn, but no sign of it showed on her face; instead she fixed them with an icy glare.  "You can't be serious," she said coldly.  "You consider this halfwit a suitable husband for Catelyn?"

Krannert shrugged coolly.  "You've found no other husband for her.   Nor will you, from the looks of her.  Were you to wed her to our Jimmis, you'd have her off your hands; you'll certainly never be rid of her any other way.  I should think that the suitability of this match would be obvious; wed your freak to our freak.  Take what you can get; how else can you find a match for her?"

Sansa was angry, but Cat was not; her huge face had frozen.  She didn't say anything, made no sign, but she'd turned red.  At first he thought it was anger, but then he saw her swallow and begin to blink; once, twice, and then tears began to spill over her lower lids silently.  She quietly—as quietly as it was possible for her to move—turned away to hide her tears from them.

Robb watched Cat weeping silently, and his expression set; his blue eyes glinted hard as diamonds, and Sandor suddenly realized that if Sansa was angry, his son was _furious._  It was only because he knew Robb that he could tell, though; when Robb spoke to Old Krannert next, his voice was polite, calm—so calm that what he said didn't register at first.

"How else can we find a match for her?  Well, I can't imagine that it would be _that _difficult; after all, I see thatyou managed to find a match _twice,_ although the proclivities of your new wife probably should be taken into account; but then again, Cat doesn't have some of the…liabilities…that obtain in your case, so she might also not have your problems."  And he smiled icily, full into Old Krannert's face.

It took a split second for the full weight of Robb's words to penetrate; their effect on Old Krannert was nothing less than staggering.  Robb had gone straight for the jugular with a cold-eyed ruthlessness and hit the point with devastating accuracy.  Krannert's face went deathly pale and his eyes widened in shock.  He choked for a moment, then lunged to his feet, knocking the bench on which he had been sitting away and going for his sword; his sons to either side leapt to their feet as well, drawing their weapons.  Krannert had gone for Robb, Sandor saw, his own sword coming readily to hand as he grabbed Sansa and shoved her behind him, keeping her safe; Krannert was reaching for Robb, his blade drawn and gleaming—

When a massive hand closed over Robb's arm and threw him bodily out of danger.

Robb went sprawling to the stones of the floor, crying out as he landed on his arm; his cry was lost in Cat's roar of fury.  The attack on Robb had done what the insult to herself was unable to do; it had enraged her.  With one hand she swatted the table out of the way while with the other she grabbed the iron chain that supported the chandelier above them. The table crashed against the wall, the dry wood splitting to half-way up the center with a loud crack. Candles rolled as Catelyn snapped the chandelier chain as if it were string.  She locked both massive fists around the chain and in one smooth motion she swung it around at Krannert's head with lethal force.  The old man ducked to the left just in time, and the heavy iron circle crumpled like paper as it smashed into the wall behind him with staggering force; sparks and chips both flew from the stone of the castle wall.  Krannert's sons were shouting, as Catelyn swung the now-half-circle chandelier at them, her huge arms bulging; one of them tripped over the bench behind him in his haste to get away, fell and rolled.  The half-witted grandson was bellowing in uncomprehending stupor. Sansa was shouting for the guards, Krannert was calling for his own men; the ruined chandelier clanged off the wall, the floor, the ceiling as Cat swung it again and again and again, roaring in rage—

"Stop, Sissie."

Robb's voice cut through the uproar, calm and quiet; soft as he had spoken, it immediately got Cat's attention.  She let the chandelier fall to the end of its chain.  "But Robb—" she said, turning toward him, pleading.

"I mean it."  Robb was getting to his feet.  His face was paper white and he was holding one arm pressed against his side at a strange angle, but he showed no fear, no pain.

"But Robb, _he tried to hurt you_—"

"Enough.  No more, Sissie."

At this simple command from her brother, Cat subsided, glowering menacingly at the Krannerts.  Old Krannert was cowering against a wall; as his sons hesitantly rallied to him.  Staring at Sansa, Old Krannert said, "Keep that _thing_ away from me.  I wouldn't take that—that—that _monster_ into our home if you offered us her weight in gold."

Sansa started to reply, but Robb beat her to it.  He was still angry, Sandor could see; he could hear it in Robb's voice, though it was thin with strain; he kept his arm pressed against him as he spoke.  "That is perfectly all right with us, ser," Robb said, cold as the northern winters.  "You see, _I_ would not let you have my Sissie if _you_ offered us her weight in gold.  You see, if I choose to give my Sissie in marriage, it will be to a proud house, a noble house, a house of honor and strength, one that demonstrates its worth by treating a bride of the house of Stark with the respect and kindness that she deserves.  One that recognizes that such a bride is a treasure beyond price, and accords her treatment thusly—"

"You call this—this _monster_—a _treasure?_"  one of Krannert's sons demanded incredulously, indicating Cat with a gesture.

"I certainly do, ser," Robb said forbiddingly.  "Catelyn _is_ a treasure.  I could not ask for a better Sissie, a sister more loyal, more honorable, more devoted, more affectionate and loving, nor one that cares for me more, nor one that is willing to do more for me.  You see, these are the qualities that are valued in the house of Stark.  I will only give my sister to a house that values and embodies these same qualities, and that house, _ser_, is not yours.  You say that you will not take my Sissie in marriage.  Well, I say that you do not deserve her, or any bride of her worth, and thus, you shall not have her.  I know that Mother agrees with me, don't you, Mother?" he asked her over his shoulder.  "Farewell, sers.  I am sorry you wasted your time."  He turned, staggering slightly, and gestured with his uninjured hand.  "Come on, Cat."  With that, he swept from the room, Cat following in his wake.

Within the hour, Old Krannert had gathered his sons and Jimmis, and departed.  Sansa made no apologies, choosing this moment to use her own coldness, and Robb had agreed.  Maester Yevon examined Robb's arm and found that it was broken—not a bad break, but bad enough to prevent him from using it for the next few weeks; he wrapped it in plaster and splinted his ankle for good measure.  Cat instantly volunteered to tend to Robb, and she nearly buried him alive in an orgy of kindness.  "It's my fault you're hurt," she said, pale and miserable-looking, as she fetched Robb a glass of water.  Robb, lying where Cat had placed him on the couch in his sitting room, propped up with pillows arranged at his direction by Cat, and covered with a blanket his Sissie had fetched him, nodded coldly.

"Yes, it is," he said sharply.  Catelyn paled and almost dropped the glass; Robb sighed.  "But you didn't mean to do it," he allowed after a moment.  "Here."   He held his hand out.  Catelyn handed him the glass eagerly, and he gulped the contents down.  He handed it back to her.  "Sissie, get me some more."

"Right away, Robb," she said and hurried away.  Robb turned away from his sister and addressed himself to Sansa, where she sat in an armchair underneath the window,

"I apologize for ruining the negotiations, Mother," he said without any trace of regret.  "How severe do you think the consequences will be?"

Sansa regarded her son calmly.  "Not too bad, I should think. They are a very minor house; if it had not been for Cat's enthusiasm I don't know whether I would have even considered their suit in the first place."  She paused, and a strange look came into her blue eyes—so much like Robb's own.  "That was an excellent speech you gave in defense of Cat, Robb.  An _excellent_ speech.  We are both proud of you, aren't we?" she asked, glancing up at Sandor; he nodded.

Robb shrugged.  "I only said what I felt to be true," he said calmly.  "To tell the truth, it made me angry," he continued, his blue eyes glinting.  "To hear them talk like that, as if my Sissie had no choice but to accept their halfwit son."  He glanced in his sister's direction briefly.  "Cat may be big and slow, but she's just as good as anybody else and there's no reason why she shouldn't be able, someday, to find a loving, decent man who understands her and is willing to be accommodating to her…special….needs.  And if—_when_ she finds him—"

Sandor had only been about half-listening to Robb during all this; he had been keeping one eye on Cat, as he usually did, as she poured Robb some more water from the pitcher on the table by the door.  Because he had been keeping one eye on Cat, he was able to see how her broad shoulders tightened at Robb's words; when she turned, there was a strange, hollow look in her eyes.

She returned silently to Robb's side as he continued speaking, and handed him the glass she had poured for him.  "You agree with them." 

Had she been anyone else, that would probably have been spoken too low to hear.  But as it was, Catelyn _never_ interrupted Robb; her brother broke off in mid-speech.  A strange look came over his face, one Sandor couldn't recognize.

"What, Cat?" he asked.  "Agree with who?"

"Them.  The Krannerts.  You agree with them."

The strange look in Robb's eyes strengthened.  "Of course I don't, Cat, why would you think that?"

"You do."  She barely raised her voice from above a whisper.  "Robb, why—why didn't you tell me?"

"Tell you what?"

"What—about Jimmis.  You knew beforehand—"

"Now you're being ridiculous, Cat," Robb scolded.

"I am not.  You knew, I know you did, and you let me hope—you let me hope that—"

Robb sighed heavily.  "Why do you say I knew, Cat?" he demanded.

"Because.  You know everything, Robb; you knew about him and his new wife, you told me you did.  You could have told me.  If you'd told me, maybe I wouldn't have—Why didn't you tell me?" she asked him again, plaintively.

"Sissie—"  Robb didn't finish; he stared at her as if considering what to say.  Cat's face crumpled as she saw his expression.

"You think I'm a freak too, don't you?" she asked, sounding broken.  "You think I'm a freak just like they do.  Everybody probably does."

"Now, Cat," Sansa began in a calming tone.  Sandor edged closer to Sansa and unobtrusively loosened his sword in its scabbard, keeping his eyes on his daughter.

"No, it's true, I know," Cat said unhappily.  "You think I'm a freak.  All that talk about how it'll be hard for me to find someone—you were probably laughing at me all along, weren't you?  For daring to hope—"

"Sissie, stop it," Robb scolded.  "You know that's not true."

"I _don't._"  Her voice was getting louder, more desperate.  "I _don't._  Just tell me, Robb, just tell me—"

"Tell you _what?_" Robb demanded.

"Tell me you think I'm—I'm not a—"

"You're not a freak," Robb said at once, easily.

Cat exploded.  _"You didn't mean that!"_ she screamed.  _"You didn't mean that!_  Tell me the _truth!_" she screamed.  "Tell me the _truth!_  Just once, tell me the _truth!_"  One fist came down on a small stool, shattering it.  And then, driven by anger, she crossed a line she had never crossed before—she reached out in her rage, and seized Robb by the arm.

Everything seemed to focus down to that point.  Sandor couldn't breathe.  Sansa had gone still, he saw; he tried to lower his hand to his sword hilt, but he couldn't move, he was frozen with fear.  _I knew it,_ he thought distantly, desperately.  _I knew it all along, she's going to hurt him just like--_  His hand was touching his sword hilt, he struggled to pull it.  _Draw it,_ he thought in panic.  _Draw it.  Protect Sansa_—_protect Robb—_his blood froze with fear as he waited for her to pick Robb up and break him in half—

He had no need to.  Robb's head snapped up to look Catelyn straight in the eyes.  Sandor realized he had _never_ seen Robb so angry, not even defending Cat earlier; his blue eyes were blazing in a face as white as snow. 

"_Get your hands off me **right now**_."   Robb's voice was quiet, controlled, and yet against the sheer rage in his eyes and face, somehow the effect was more terrifying than if he had roared; each word he spoke was as gleaming, distinct and sharp as cut diamonds, while his eyes flamed.  And his Sissie flinched back. 

"I'm sorry, Robb," she apologized at once, shrinking back from her brother.  She looked frightened, whether by him or by what she had almost done, Sandor couldn't tell.  He was too stunned by what had just happened.

"Accepted," Robb said, but his eyes still flashed with rage.  Cat swallowed and drew back further, looking afraid. 

"But Robb," she continued, in a voice that still trembled slightly, "do—do you—please, tell me the truth, Robb, all right?  Just, please, tell me the truth, I—"

Robb raised himself on the couch and looked at her for a long time. His anger was still in him, his eyes glinting, his face white.  Cat watched him, her eyes hanging on his face. No one dared speak; the silence hung in the air almost like a visible presence as the moment spun itself out.

 When Robb finally spoke after a long silence, his voice was brutal, hard as stone and uncompromising as iron.  "You want the truth?  Fine, Cat," he said coolly.  "You want the truth?  Ordinarily, I wouldn't say it, but since you asked me, I'll give you the truth.  Yes.  I think you're a freak.  I always have.  I wouldn't say it quite like that, but since that was the word you used, yes, it is indeed accurate.  You're stupid, too.  I don't know why you're like this; the Seven know I've tried to help you; so far it's been unsuccessful, though.  It's like you're a monster, somehow, or an aberration—some kind of unnatural _creature_ that should never have been born.  I'm sorry, Cat, if there were another way to say it, I would, but there isn't and I can't. Sorry."

Cat paled.  Robb's face was calm and impassive, but his stony eyes were gleaming with that terrible light; he was looking on Cat as if she were some species of insect, and his cool, cruel gaze a needle spearing her to the ground.  Sansa hissed in outrage. 

_"Robb,_" she demanded, "how _dare_ you—"

"What, Mother?"  His voice was still chill and hard as ice as he fixed Cat under his eyes.  Cat's own gaze was trapped by Robb's as if she could not look away; her broad shoulders were heaving with ragged, gasping breaths. "Tell Cat what I really think?  It's only the same as what everyone thinks.  Would you rather I lie to her?   Act like nobody can see what she really is?  We all can.  I know you and Father can," he said with a nod in his father's direction.  "Pretending you can't is, I think, the worst thing you could do."  He glanced in Sandor's direction then.  "Don't you agree, Father?" he asked.

Sandor could feel Sansa's eyes on him, boring into him, but it was Catelyn's face he watched.  Cat's pale, desperate face.  Her dark eyes, pleading silently.  His _daughter_.  His own, only, somehow beautiful daughter.  Almost a full foot taller than he was and stronger than any four men, himself included, begging him for help.

"The boy is right."  He hadn't known what he was going to say until he spoke, yet the moment he did, he could see it was the only thing he could have said.  Robb's eyes flicked in his direction as he spoke.  Sandor thought he saw—for a moment—some unnamable emotion cross his son's face, but perhaps it was a trick of the light.

"How _could_ you—"  Sansa began furiously.

"It's only the truth, Sansa," he said roughly, cutting her off.  "Robb's right, anyone can see it.  Pretending it's not so will do no good.  You can say otherwise, but it'll still be true."

Sansa's own blue eyes shone too brightly.  "Catelyn—" she began, turning back to their daughter; so much love was in Sansa's voice that it made Sandor wince.  "Cat, look, darling—"

But Catelyn had drawn herself up.  She was not angry, though Sandor had half expected her to explode in rage; she was calm, collected.  Her face was the color of the pale stone wall behind her, and her eyes were wet, but she did not weep.  She only stood, gray and stiff as if trying to hide a mortal wound, and nodded calmly.  "No, it's all right, Mother.  It's all right. It's only the truth.  I know it too," she said, and even managed a gallows smile.  "I just—"  She stopped and swallowed.  "I just wanted….never mind. I'm sorry."

The stony hardness had left Robb's face; if anything, he seemed taken aback by her response.  "You're not angry?" he asked her; sounding almost concerned.

"Why should I be?" Cat said, her voice quivering only a little.  "I asked you to tell me what you really thought and you did.  You too, Father," she said, and smiled in Sandor's direction.  Something about that smile made him feel strange, like he was ill or feverish.  "Thank you, Robb, for putting up with me for—for all these years." 

"Well, I mean—"  Robb paused again.  He stared at her, seemingly and for one of the very few times since he had been born, at a loss.  "You're—you're still my Sissie, you know?"

"I know.  I am.  I'll always be your Sissie, Robb," she said with another brave smile.  She turned and started making for the door.

"Cat?"

"I'm sorry, Robb, I—I just can't be here—right now. I need—I need to think.  For a little.  All right, Robb?"  She did not even wait for answer, but moving with a strange stiffness, she ducked out of the room. 

Sansa said nothing, but she looked at her husband and her son, and her eyes said more than words could.  Without another word, she left as well.  The silence in her wake was deafening.

Cat didn't come back that night, and it wasn't until the next morning that they figured out why.  The three of them had been breaking their fast the next morning in heavy silence, as Sansa presided over the table with a glacial chill, when Rendrew, the Master of the Kennels, entered, nearly tripping over himself in haste.

"What's wrong?" Sansa had asked, immediately sensing something was amiss.

"My lady, it—I—"  Rendrew had been pale as ash, and had only been able to gesture futilely for a moment or two.  At last he had found his voice.  "The—the lake, my lady, the lake, it—I—"  He shook his head.  "Down by the lake, my lady, down by the lake.  Come at once!"

There had already been a commotion when they reached the shores of the lake; it was winter this year, and the breath of the crowd assembled plumed in the cool air.  These were Sansa's people, and they obeyed; an imperious command or two and they parted like waves before her, giving her access to the shores of the small, frozen lake.  One woman did not move out of the way but remained on the edge of the bank, looking grimly into the water—it was Brienne, he recognized her by her height, though her back was to him.  He should have known then, he would think later.  He should have known then, but he didn't; only a quick premonition struck him like a shard of ice, pressed into his heart.  Later he would think that Sansa knew though, or sensed something, because he heard her inhale sharply, saw her shoulders stiffen.  Brienne turned briefly to glance at them as they came up beside her; her eyes were hollow, haunted, and she did not speak as she turned her gaze back to the water.

The first sight that greeted Sandor's eyes as the crowd moved back was a dark patch of water in the middle of the frozen ice, dark water in which smaller ice chunks bobbed.  A team of horses was on the far bank, straining in response to commands given them by the man at their head—Winterfell's Master of the Horse, Landuin, he recognized.  The second sight that met his eyes—

Sansa's gasp was audible even over the noise of the crowd; the gathered people subsided at once, hearing that, and all eyes turned toward her.  Robb took one look, paled and fled; Sandor wanted to do the same, but a glance at Sansa restrained him; he went to her instead.  She was not usually demonstrative with him in public, but as the team of horses strained against their ropes, as they hauled Cat's submerged and dripping corpse from the depth of the icy water, Sansa had taken his arm, and squeezed it hard enough to hurt.  He put his hand over hers, and looked down at her; she was composed, but pale as death; her expression revealed nothing.

The two of them had stood side by side, watching, with Brienne a slight distance away, a silent witness.  As the horses strained at their ropes, as Cat's massive form came up through the ice, blue with cold, her dark hair and strong features—so like his own—streaming water, her eyes closed in death, Sandor had felt the opening of a hollow, empty place inside him; it seemed like nothing would ever be right again.  Sansa watched silently as they laid Cat on the shore, then turned and looked at him.  The lake would have been warmer than her eyes.  "Get me Robb," she said only, as if to a servant, and turned, and walked away.

When Sandor brought Robb to Sansa, she was in the great hall, sitting on the high dais as if in judgement.  There was no compassion in her eyes as she looked down at her son.  "Oh, Mama, I feel like I killed her—" he began the moment he saw her.

"That's because that's what you _did_, Robb."

Robb looked as if he had been slapped, his mouth open in shock, staring at his mother.  In that moment, Sandor saw, it was amazing how much they looked alike; both with fire-red hair, blue eyes, pale skin.  He could almost see Robb's mind working as he looked at his mother.

"Mother?" he asked at last.

"You killed her, Robb."  Sansa's voice was cold as the water they'd dragged Cat from that morning.  "You might not have stabbed her, but in the end it comes to the same thing.  You drove her to death, you did it deliberately, and now you will tell me why."

The shock on Robb's face had vanished; his expression was closed, revealing nothing.  "I'm sorry, Mother," he said with some effort at calm, "I don't understand what you mean.  You say I killed her?"

"All Cat ever wanted was your approval, Robb.  All she ever wanted was your love.  She gave you everything and what did you give her?  You insulted her, belittled her, and cut her down at every turn, and now you will tell me why you did it."

"Idid not_,_" Robb protested.   His habitual air of superiority was faltering in the face of Sansa's own.  "I was never less than a loving brother to my Sissie.  I loved her very much.  I—"  He stopped and raised a hand to his eyes. 

"Did you? You certainly had a strange way of showing it," Sansa said.  "Every word you ever spoke to her revealed that you thought she was less than you were—"

"I never said I thought Cat was less."  Robb was backing up now fast.  "I never said—"

"When you last spoke to her you told her you thought she was—what was it exactly—'stupid,' a 'freak,' an 'unnatural creature that should never have been born?'"

"That's—" Robb swallowed.  "That's not the same thing as saying she's less."  Robb countered, shifting his ground.  He was staring at his mother as if he had never seen her before.  Sandor could almost see the wheels turning in his mind.

"Isn't it? You could have fooled me."  Sansa's voice was like ice.  "You treated her like a servant, Robb, like a halfwit, like your own beast of burden—"

"I never ordered her to do anything," Robb countered.  "Everything she did, she did of her own free will.  She did it because—because she _loved_ me and I—"  He broke off and swallowed.  "I never ordered her to do anything," he repeated only.  "She loved me."

"She did love you.  It is a shame," Sansa replied icily, "that you did not love her."

"Mother, I—"  Robb stopped and put a hand over his eyes again.  "Mama, please," he said brokenly.  "Mama—"

Sansa watched her son for a long moment, then sighed.  "Catelyn adored you, Robb."  Her voice was soft, almost gentle.  Sandor might have mistaken it for compassionate, if he had not been able to see her eyes; there was no compassion there.

"I know," Robb replied in a choked voice.

"She loved you so much," Sansa continued, in that same gentle voice.  "She would have done anything for you.  Do you remember," she asked kindly, "remember how when you were ill with fever that summer, and you mentioned you wanted strawberries? Cat must have gathered up every strawberry in five miles—the entire keep had nothing but strawberries for an entire week, it seemed—"

"Yes…" Robb swallowed again, but made a strangled sound that might have been a laugh.  "I remember that.  I was so tired of strawberries by the time they were gone—I didn't care if I never saw another strawberry again--"

"I know," Sansa said, almost—but not quite--kind.  "I think we all were."  She paused.  "Or how about when you were eight and kicked your ball into the tree, remember that?" she asked him, smiling.  "How Cat tried to go up after it and the lower branches wouldn't hold her—"

Robb gave that strangled laugh again.  "I told her it was a bad idea at the time—I told her the branches wouldn't support her and she should just give me a lift—"

"She ended up dropping almost ten feet to the ground and taking off the only branch within reach for anyone as well, and on top of that, you never did get your ball back.  I think that ball's still up there to this day, isn't it?" she asked with gentle humor.

But now Robb was remembering.  "Or when Cat decided that she wanted to—when we found that cave—"

"That cave north of the godswood," Sansa said, nodding; she smiled, but the gleaming light in her eyes did not diminish.  "I remember.  She jumped down in there and—"

"And she got stuck," Robb said, with a trembling smile.  "Yes, she got stuck down there and couldn't get out—"

"And you, Robb.  You crawled down after her to keep her company, remember?" Sansa asked him, her voice as gentle as a caress; the contrast between her tone and the look in her eyes as she gazed at her son chilled Sandor's gut.  "You crawled down after her and couldn't get out either—you both were down there for almost a whole day, I think…."

"I didn't intend to get out," Robb corrected her with a ghost of asperity.  "Not as long as my Sissie was—was down there, and—"  He swallowed again, passing a hand over his face.  "I didn't want her to be alone down there."  His eyes glimmered; a shining trail of moisture snaked its way down his face.  "I didn't—I didn't want her to be all alone in—all alone in th-the d-darkness—"

"All alone in the dark.  Well, she's alone now, Robb."  Sansa's voice was still quiet, but the kindness had vanished without warning; that hard light leapt up in her eyes, as cold and as terrible as Robb had looked earlier at his sister.  "She's all alone in the dark and the cold.  She died that way.  She died that way, surrounded by darkness and chill—who knows how long she was trapped down there, under the ice, unable to reach the surface, fighting to breathe, cold water around her, filling her lungs, choking, clawing, seeking desperately for help and finding none—"

"_Stop,_ can't you _stop?_"  The raw, harsh sound of his own voice surprised Sandor almost as much as it did Robb or Sansa; but the picture—of Cat, surrounded by cold, freezing water, holding her breath, struggling to reach the surface only to find her way blocked by a clear sheet of ice—it kept coming back to him, he kept seeing her huge form thrashing, as if he were looking down through the ice at her, she was meeting his eyes as she fought in her death throes, pleading for—_She's pleading for me to help her_--  "_Stop,_ Sansa," he begged.  "For—for mercy's sake.  _Stop._"

She flicked a glance at him but her eyes were veiled.  Robb made a choked sound that after a moment Sandor recognized as a sob.  Sansa looked at him for a moment more, then said, her voice as quiet, as gentle as ever mother had spoken to her babe, "Why'd you do it, Robb?" Only that, did she say.

Robb drew a long, shuddering breath, then another one.  Sansa watched him, waiting, her blue eyes gleaming predatorily.  Sandor squeezed his own eyes shut, in an attempt to block out the image of Catelyn, fighting her way back to the surface and air, only to smash into the ice; he shook his head sharply, but none of it helped.

_"Because she scared me."_  Robb's whispered confession brought him back to himself with a start.

_"What?"_  Sansa asked in total disbelief.  Sandor looked over at his wife; now it was Sansa's turn to stare, unbelievingly, at Robb.  "Robb, _what_ did you say?"

"_She scared him."_  He didn't realize he'd say it until he had.  Sansa glanced over at him, stunned, but at that moment Sandor didn't care; in that one moment, as if through a flash of illumination, Sandor understood everything.  He turned away and stared at the wall while his son continued.

"She scared me, Mama," Robb said again, swallowing.  "She frightened me so badly sometimes that I—"

"She _frightened_ you?"  Sansa looked as if she couldn't believe her ears.  "You're telling me that all this was because—because your Sissie _frightened_ you?"  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Robb nod miserably.  "Your Sissie—but _how_, Robb?  _Why?_  Did she—did she ever _threaten_—"

_She didn't have to._  It was only when Robb continued that Sandor realized his son had spoken his own thoughts.

"She was so much bigger than me, Mama," Robb was confessing.  "So much stronger than me.  If she wanted to hurt me—"

"Cat would _never_ have—" Sansa began.

"Yes, I know, you can _say_ that," Robb said desperately, "but that doesn't make it _true._  She could have snapped me in half without even trying—I could _never_ have stopped her, I couldn't even have slowed her down.  Of _course_ I was afraid of her, Mama," he said, his voice raw with frustration.  "Didn't you see the heedless way she smashed furniture or broke windows when she was angry?  And she was always very sorry for it afterwards, of course, but--  Honestly, Mother, how stupid do you think I am?"  Robb was growing angry himself.  "Do you think I didn't realize how easily she--  _Look_ at this, Mother!"  He gestured to his broken arm, still in a sling and wrapped in plaster.  "Cat did that _defending_ me.  Trying to _protect_ me!  Can you think of what she could have done if she'd _really_ set out to hurt me?

"Of _course_ she frightened me.  She—" He hissed in frustration.  "She frightened half the people in the Keep, Mother, didn't it _ever_ occur to you that she might have frightened me too?  Father was afraid of her," he added with a glance at Sandor.  "I know he was.  She did too—"

"Your father is not the one under discussion here," Sansa cut him off sharply, though Sandor was rocked.  The idea that his son had been able to tell what he had tried so hard to hide, for so long—   _What else does he know?  What else that I--_  It chilled him to the core, that his son could read him so well.

"She frightened me," Robb was continuing.  "Of course she did.  Almost _more_ because she never tried to!"

Sansa was shaking her head now.  "You never acted like it," she was saying, looking at her son.  The strange gleaming steeliness in her eyes had gone, replaced by total bewilderment; it had been a long time since Sandor had seen Sansa look so confused. He wondered vaguely how Sansa could see everything else so keenly and yet be so blind about this; he had known the whole story right from Robb's first admission.  But Sansa was continuing, "You never showed it at all—"

"Do you think I'm _stupid?_"  Robb demanded impatiently.  "The _only_ defense I had against her was _not to let her know!_  If she knew I was afraid, she—she could have _used it against me,_ Mother!  The moment she knew how much she scared me, I—"  He stopped and covered his eyes again.  "And besides if I told her it would have—"  Robb broke off for a moment, swallowing.  The silence in the room was deafening.

"That summer I was sick," he continued, slowly.  "It was Cat's nameday, but I hadn't gotten her anything, I was too sick to get out of bed.  I was only about seven or eight but I remember so clearly--  I told her I felt bad because I hadn't gotten her anything, and she said—she said she didn't care, that—  She told me that," he went on, his words broken and distorted, "that when you were giving birth to me, Mother, and you were having a hard time, as young as she was, she had gone to the Seven and prayed…she told me that she'd asked them to let you be all right, Mother, because she was afraid for you, and then—that they send her a little brother or sister to love her, one that she could love with all her heart, that she could take care of, protect and watch over, and that if they were to do these things, she'd never want anything else from them again for the rest of her life.

"'And they _did,_' she told me, all serious and solemn.  'They sent me you, Robb, they answered my prayer.  When I saw you, Robb, I realized that the gods were good after all.  You don't have to _find_ me a gift,' she told me, 'you _are_ a gift.'  She told me how much it meant to her that I was here, and most important, that I—that I _wasn't afraid of her, Mother,"_ he continued, swallowing again.  "She _knew_ that she scared almost everyone, she didn't like it, in fact she _hated_ it but she didn't know what to do to make it better, and she told me that the fact that I—that _I_—wasn't afraid of her meant more to her than _anything_ else in the world.  Don't you see, Mother?" he pleaded.  "How could I let her know?  How could I hurt her like that?  If I showed her, if I told her how much she scared me, it—  It would break her heart," he said simply.  "I couldn't do that to her, Mama, not to my Sissie.  I _could not._"

"So you broke her spirit instead."  It might have been an accusation, but it wasn't; Sansa's voice was too quiet.

"I had to," Robb confessed in an almost whisper.  "I didn't mean to, I swear it.  I _swear._  By all the old gods and the new, I _swear_, Mother. I just wanted to do something to make her _safe_, Mama—I never meant to hurt her, but I—I felt like I had to do _something_ to, I mean, just to even the—"

_To even the odds a little bit._  Sansa looked over and her eyes met Sandor's.  At that moment, looking at her looking at him, he knew exactly what her thoughts were and he could see she knew his, the same.  Robb was still speaking, his voice coming to them distantly:  "But I never meant to do this to her, Mama, please, I just—I just want my Sissie back, Mama, I swear if I could just have her _back_, I'd never say another cruel thing to her again for the rest of my life—"

His words fell on their ears, unheeded by either of them.

That evening, in the privacy of their bedchamber, Sansa said to him, "I should have let you cripple her."

It was the first thing either of them had said to the other since Robb's confession. Sandor turned and looked at her, startled.  Sansa smiled with biting, bitter humor.

"Wasn't that what you wanted to do?  Was it her legs, or her back you wanted to break?  I don't remember.  I should have let you.  It would have been swifter and more merciful.  And she'd still be alive now."

Sandor did not reply.  He turned his face—his ugly, scarred face—to the wall.  After a moment, he said, "I'm to blame."

"What?"

He closed his eyes and shook his head slightly. "I knew.  I knew what he was doing, somehow, and I—"

"_No,_" Sansa said strongly.  He heard the rustle of her dressing gown as she moved across the floor, felt her arms encircling him.  "No.  Don't blame yourself.  _I'm_ the one at fault—I could see _exactly_ what Robb was doing, I've done the same myself a time or two—but not on this _scale_, not—It never occurred to me, that while Robb was so _young_--"  Her tone was a mix of anger, grief, and—strangest of all—something that sounded like _admiration._  He must have heard her wrong, that last one couldn't be right, he thought dimly.

"No."  His voice was hoarse and rough in his ears.  "You may have known what he was doing, but you didn't know _why._  I knew why. Somehow I knew," he insisted, as her arms tightened around him.  "I could feel it, and I—"  He couldn't say what came next. 

"Shhhh," Sansa whispered to him softly; she drew him to the edge of the bed, sat down, and pulled his ugly head down to rest against her shoulder.  "You're not at fault here.  It's my fault.  If I'd—If I'd stepped in and put a stop to it, if I'd slapped Robb down hard like I thought he needed so many times….but watching him doing what he was doing, and doing it so _well,_ it was almost—"

Sandor let her words flow over him; he turned and buried his scarred face against her, putting his own arms around her.  It didn't matter what she said, didn't make any difference, he knew, even as she clasped him close, as she stroked what hair he had and whispered soft, comforting, meaningless words.  Because—

The memory of a summer day came back to him, pushing everything else away; a day, long ago, when he'd stood quiet and listened to Cat's harsh, racking sobs.  He'd stood, and listened, and for a moment had thought—

No.  That was wrong.  That wasn't what he'd been doing at all.  _Admit it, damn you, dog.  Yes, _dog.  _Thought you weren't a dog anymore by now, didn't you? Well, that's wrong.  You're still a dog, aren't you, nothing more than an ugly, craven_ dog,_ and now you know it for truth._

He'd stood there, that day so long ago, stood quiet and listened to his daughter's tears, and just for a moment—only a moment, no more than that, but it was enough—he'd closed his eyes, and actually pretended to himself that he was…_come on, out with it, dog_…he'd pretended that….that he was listening to Gregor.  

.It made him feel crazy, remembering that now.  Just the thought made him want to hit something, someone, himself maybe, but it was true.  Seven help him, it _was true._  He'd listened, he had actually stood there listening to his daughter, his _daughter_, crying in pain because of what Robb had done to her, and he'd pretended it was Gregor.  He'd seen what Robb was doing, he'd known why, he'd _known,_ and he'd done nothing.  He'd watched Robb hurt Cat, crush her, break her spirit, and he'd let it happen, even gone along with it, because _she could have been Gregor._  And when Robb had asked him—when Robb had told Cat that she was a freak, and asked him what he thought, he'd—  His fists clenched at the thought, hard enough that the muscles in his fingers throbbed. 

He'd wanted to have a daughter because daughters were safe, he remembered dimly; it came back to him along with the dreams he'd had, dreams of sitting by the fireside with his pretty daughters around him, perhaps their husbands, grandchildren, playing at his feet.  The memory tasted like ashes in his mouth.  His arms tightened around Sansa's waist; she held him too, rocking them both gently, murmuring meaningless comforts.  He wondered what she was thinking, but didn't dare ask her.

Something Sansa had read to him once came back to him; he couldn't remember how it all went but it was something about how children always ended up suffering for the misdeeds of the parents_._  He thought of that now and wanted to weep.  He'd wanted a daughter because daughters were safe; because he didn't want to end up like his father, helpless in the face of a menace he couldn't fight.  He'd gotten a daughter and a son, and ended up _worse_ than his father, and the thought sickened him. At least his father had only gone along because he couldn't think of what else to do.  Sandor had—_he'd_ gone along, even helped out, he'd even _helped_ Robb, because he had seen—

_That Robb could do what you couldn't, dog._ 

It was the truth.  What he'd never been able to do, for all his strength and skill at fighting.  Robb, his pale unwarlike son, was the one who could _make Cat safe_. 

_That's why._  That was why he hadn't stopped Robb.  _And _that_, dog,_ he snarled at himself furiously, _makes you every bit as craven as he was.  Worse. Makes you worse.  Father at least never _helped_ Gregor, and _you—

He must have made some sort of noise, because Sansa's arms tightened around him.  "Shhh," she whispered, holding him close.  "Shh….it's all right….it is…."

_"How?"_

"I don't know," she said, and laughed, softly, bitterly.  "I don't know."


End file.
